Alice Through The Multiverse

by Brian Trenchard-Smith

  Alice stepped forward to an uncertain future without a backward glance.

  Nelson stepped through the oak door at the top of the staircase to join Brandt in the War Room, but found him rushing up the stairs. “The American’s alive! Here.”

  “What? Fucking idiots! How could they…?” No time for that. Professionalism kicked in. He turned back to peer through his peephole. Alice was progressing down the aisle as intended. “We can still fix this, Angus,” Nelson said confidently. “He can wait. Just head him off. Keep ’em apart. I won’t blow till you’re safe. It’s a big ask Angus, I know. Trust me.”

  Brandt trusted Nelson as he always had. No time for debate. The plan teetered at mission critical. He could save the day. Brandt nodded then stepped through the door without a word. He checked his weapon, transferred the Bluetooth to his other ear, filtered into the crowd.

  Nelson ran down the stairs to reach his laptop, quickly scanning all cameras covering the White Tower, inside and out. No sign. He dialed Brandt. “He’s not at the south end. Try sweeping north.” Brandt knew to avoid the central aisle where the plan would climax at any moment. After detonation he would lawfully detain this interfering dickhead and shoot him dead.

  Nelson enlarged the camera angle that covered Alice’s progress towards the target. “Nearly there, twenty seconds tops.” At that time their paths would converge and put Pamela van Doren within the blast radius. It was not a big bomb. The planners surmised that modest loss of innocent life would be mourned and fade from public memory but the destruction of a beloved monument would not. They wanted the scars to be minimal. Hence the bomb sewn into Alice’s fashion label coat delivered a guaranteed kill zone of only twenty feet. Nelson wanted them closer than that. He moved a cellphone on the table nearer the laptop. A number was displayed on the screen. All he had to do was hit send, and that was seconds away. Then he saw Alice sink to her knees forty feet shy of the target. “Not yet!” he heard himself shout at the screen. “Jesus Christ!”

  The target was standing in front of the statue of Charles I. Pamela was discussing with their guide the only English king to be beheaded by order of Parliament, when her assistant Paige nudged her arm, directing her attention to a girl kneeling in the hallway facing them with her head bowed and her hands clasped in supplication. Was she a stalker? Her assistants were concerned. There had been a few back in the States, where Pamela was always accompanied by low key security. They hadn’t thought they would need it for a private weekend in London. A taste of things to come, I guess, thought Pamela.

  Alice had knelt when she did because her mother taught her so. Approach ye fine folk, her mother had said, not as nigh as a four-horse wagon unless bidden. So Alice waited on her knees in silent prayer. A troubled girl, thought Pamela. She looks harmless enough. She talked down her assistants’ concerns and moved towards Alice to assist her. Alice looked up. The Princess Elizabeth beckoned with a welcoming smile on her face. Alice arose and made a courtesy.

  “That’s more like it,” Nelson said to the screen. He had moved into a new mental zone. Every second expanded. He clicked onto Brandt’s Bluetooth. “Angus, get behind a pillar. Face west.” “Copy that,” replied Brandt. Then something caught his eye.

  Nelson stared at the security camera output. Pamela van Doren was now just within the blast zone. Nelson placed his finger a millimeter above “Send” and told Brandt: “Detonation in five…f-” The word froze on his tongue.

  The security camera showed a figure dash into the central aisle, grab Alice around the waist, and carry her off at the run and away from the target. A second later another figure, Brandt, charging through in pursuit. Nelson stayed his finger just in time. While there was a chance that Brandt could herd them back toward the target, he would not detonate. At the same time, panic had broken out in the hall. Paul had screamed “Bomb! Everybody run!” at the top of his lungs. Nelson saw Pamela and her assistants scurrying in the direction of the exit with other panicked tourists. “Talk to me, Angus! Are they close? Back away!” But Brandt’s Bluetooth had been swept from his ear by a hanging pennant. Chaos cluttered the security screens.

  “Angus! Gotta blow! Find cover!” No response. He dared wait no longer. Instinct took over. He pressed “Send” harder than was needed. An instant later he saw a blinding flash behind the southwest pillar. Screams pierced the smoke and dust.

  CHAPTER 49

  A Drilled Tooth

  Jane felt her arms being wrenched back to be chained behind the stake. She watched soldiers pour oil from buckets on the surrounding circle of bundled sticks and logs. Oil slopped on the ground all around her. “God help me...please,” she begged. The crowd parted and Inquisitor Córdoba appeared. He stepped onto the firewood stacked to make steps up to the stake.

  “God will come to your aid,” said Córdoba “if you confess before the people. Confess that you and the Princess Elizabeth have together engaged in the foul practices of witchcraft. Repent of your sins and beg God’s forgiveness through me.”

  “If I do this…you will save me?” Jane whispered through her tears. She realized that she had been set the same moral challenge she had faced earlier. And had faced successfully. Nothing had prevented Elizabeth’s reign. It was an historical fact. Unless Jane now changed the outcome.

  “You will be saved from the pain of hellfire today and forever,” said the Inquisitor. “You will be set free to give evidence at her trial. You will be given property and a stipend. I give you my word as a man of God.”

  A hideous death, or wealth and property. A simple choice. Not to mention the tempting opportunity to remain a 21st century mind in a 16th century environment. To unravel then re-weave like Penelope the threads of history by the simple utterance of a few words. And who better qualified than she? Power. The most seductive temptation of all. The power to play God.

  ***

  Alice was shocked when her James suddenly appeared yelling her name, lifting her as if she were thistledown. Surely the Princess would be offended by such behavior. But when she saw the desperation in his face she knew they were in mortal danger. He shouted other words, beyond her understanding, as people all around began to scream and run away from them.

  When Paul had reached the Hall of Kings, he had cruised the closest aisle of exhibits looking everywhere for a sight of Alice. He had ignored a slight figure in a purplish coat moving up the center aisle. Then he caught the proud line of her chin, the bright flowing hair. It was Alice, and he grasped what the coat was for. His gut clenched. He leapt forward, ducking under an armored horseman to reach the center aisle and intercept her.

  “The coat is poisoned. Get it off!” Paul screamed, peeling it off her, and dragging her round a thick double buttressed pillar away from the crowd, and out of view of Nelson’s laptop. From the corner of his eye, Paul had seen Brandt in pursuit, closing in fast.

  Brandt hoped that Nelson could still see him, now they had lost communication. He paused at the pillar to peer round, weapon pointed, then stepped forward. At the same time, Paul had ripped the coat off Alice, and he swung it back round the pillar, falling at Brandt’s feet. Brandt recoiled instinctively, but knew Nelson would wait till he got clear. Then he heard the ring tone. Paul pushed Alice further round the pillar, hoping that it would deflect the blast, which came a second later with a deafening crack.

  Nelson scanned the security cameras. Exhibits had been blown over. Smoke and dust obscured the body count, but they would help cover his next move. He turned his attention to the terrified crowd now jamming the exits. He spotted Pamela van Doren at the fringe of the crowd around the North East door. She was hugging her two assistants, comforting them. Nelson’s mind raced, ego overriding reason; though, in truth, reason had left him a long time before. He hoped that Brandt was unscathed, but could not think about that now. He could still fix this. It would make for a tougher inquiry, but he could ride it through. He would find a concealed van
tage point, shoot the target dead, then wound a few others, casualties apparently caught in the crossfire of a gun battle with surviving terrorists. The confirmed death of Pamela van Doren from whatever cause would trigger the gush of money into his accounts. Desperation and greed rationalized risk.

  Paul lifted his head from the flagstones, as dust and plaster rained down from the painted ceiling. The blast had fractured the mighty pillar behind them, blown chunks of masonry from the corner, but the structure held. Paul had taken Alice to the floor, each instinctively trying to shield the other, as the explosion split the air.

  It was louder than any blast Alice had heard at the contest of cannonry on Farnham Common. She wondered if more shot and shell would be flying overhead. She had given up trying to unravel the mystery of this world. She was on a bolting horse, plunging through a nightmare. She just had to hang on. Her James would know what to do. For a brief moment she had no desire to get up, comfortable on the flagstones, pressed against her beloved, now returned to her by God’s Grace. She gazed into his green eyes, their faces inches apart. Surely God would not take him from her again.

  Nelson stepped out through the oak door into the chamber. In addition to his pistol he had brought with him an Agram 2002, a Croatian submachine gun with a 22 round clip, favored by terrorists, ideal to be the culprit weapon if required. He peered through the peephole, trying to get a fix on his target.

  Paul pulled Alice to her feet, dragging her back to the fractured pillar. He did not know how many adversaries he faced. The epicenter of the explosion was the safest place to seek cover. The only casualty Paul could see was Brandt, who had fled as far as he could from the fallen coat before the blast blew off his left leg at the knee.

  Brandt lay on his side, looking back at the bleeding stump, as he crawled towards his fallen gun. He had trusted his partner, and had trusted wrong. But he knew that his real mistake had occurred years before when he had succumbed to Nelson’s invitation to join him in entrepreneurial security. Now he had ruined his life and his family. He could not live with that. Brandt’s fingers reached for his gun, and he placed its muzzle under his chin. As he fumbled for the best angle, Paul reached in and snatched it from his grasp. Brandt looked up. The American who had outwitted them crouched down to examine his leg.

  “We need you alive.” Beside the American stood the girl who moments before had been totally under their control.

  “Why should he live?” she gasped.

  “ He’s our witness. Trust me on this, Alice,” said Paul. Trust, she would forever.

  Paul continued. “Help us and I will speak for you.” It took no persuasion. Brandt’s loyalty to Nelson now lay with his missing leg.

  “I need your belt,” said Paul, reaching down to Brandt’s buckle and unhooking it. The steady trickle of blood from the stump became a squirt as Paul heaved the belt loose. Brandt, a proud man, suppressed a howl of pain.

  “Let me do it,” insisted Alice. Paul looked at her in surprise. “My Da taught me.” Her father, because of his trade, which oft called him to lop the hand off a thief, was considered an expert on ruined bodies. When the blacksmith’s son fell under the wheel of the ale wagon she had watched him tie a leather thong above the stump of the severed foot and clean the wound. The boy lived to resume his trade. Such acts had earned the Craddock family a measure of goodwill in the village. Alice took the belt and fashioned a tourniquet round the leg as confidently as a surgeon might. But Paul was no longer surprised by anything Alice did.

  “How many?” said Paul checking the clip in Brandt’s gun.

  “Just Nelson,” said Brandt, suppressing a groan as Alice knotted the belt tight.

  “Nelson?”

  “My boss.” Paul turned to Alice. “Stay here.”

  He turned back to Brandt. “Don’t mess with her, trust me on this.” Then Paul ran back to the fractured pillar.

  Brandt’s stump had stopped bleeding but a new pain afflicted him, his deadened conscience regaining sensation like the nerve of a drilled tooth.

  “Will you ever forgive me, lass?” asked Brandt.

  “I will,” said Alice. “But God may not,” she added after a moment’s thought.

  CHAPTER 50

  Vengeance Is Mine

  “Will you confess?” shouted the Inquisitor Córdoba once more. The crowd that had amassed around the pyre on Tower Hill was hushed, awaiting her answer. Many who had attended earlier burnings hoped that the witch would remain defiant, some in sympathy with her, some because it would make for a better spectacle. Jane was silent for a moment. The weight of her decision bowed her head. She whispered. “Hear my confession…”

  Murmurs of disappointment ran through the crowd. Córdoba bent closer to her. “Speak loudly. The rabble must hear you.”

  “I confess...” Jane started, then she yelled “I confess that I want you to go straight to Hell!” She swung her foot and kicked him in the groin. She would not betray the Princess Elizabeth. She would not betray Alice. She had a responsibility to see things through as they were meant to be. Jane had found her reason for being.

  Córdoba lurched, missed his footing and tumbled backwards to the base of the bonfire. This provoked a huge laugh from the people, who rarely saw but always relished the embarrassment of authority figures, particularly clerics. When the Inquisitor got to his feet, he saw that oil had smeared his fine robes. He glared at the witch with loathing.

  “Die screaming, then!” He never had any intention of honoring a promise to a vessel of Satan. If she had made a good confession, he would have shortened her demise with the green straw. But not now. No. She would taste the searing pain of eternal damnation in this world before she entered the next. He gave the signal. Two men came forward with burning torches. Jane knew that her agony was at hand.

  ***

  Paul scanned the fallen debris of the Line of Kings. There was an armored horseman left standing, and using it for cover was the rogue agent who had ordered Paul’s hanging.

  Nelson had found his firing position, and was scanning through the chaos for the target. Paul saw the man level a submachine gun, as if taking care with his aim. Paul pointed and shot instinctively. The bullet struck the breastplate of the knight. Nelson ducked and pivoted round the backside of the horse. But the shot had had the effect Paul wanted. It spooked the crowd. Every person in the hall, including Pamela van Doren and her companions, hit the ground.

  Nelson cursed and directed his attention to this new threat. He blazed away at the pillar, the source of the shot. To his surprise, and to Paul’s, the impact of the bullets delivered the coup de grace to the splintered pillar. The central column split diagonally and pitched to the ground with a deafening crash and a cloud of dust. Paul dived for cover as Nelson fired another salvo. Paul knew that he had to draw fire away from Alice, and ironically, from the other man who had been trying to kill him for two days. Close by he saw steps leading down to a darkened adjacent chamber. A sign saying ‘The Fate of Traitors to the Crown—Opening Soon’ barred the entrance. Paul ran toward it and dived head first down the steps as a burst of gunfire chewed up the flagstones at his heels.

  “Nobody leave the building!” yelled Nelson, unseen by the crowd. The crowd pressed together, cowering near the exit. He fired another shot at the wall above the doorway for emphasis. “Terrorists are hiding among you. Stay where you are! Don’t move! Help is coming!” They’ll keep. He reloaded and headed in pursuit of Paul, laying down short bursts of suppressive fire into the darkened room as he approached.

  Paul knew that he was outgunned. He ran through the hall to the far end looking for a hiding place from which he could take his best shot when his pursuer was silhouetted at the entrance. The first exhibit was a low platform on which stood the wax figure of a hooded executioner, with a traditional headsman’s block at his feet, on which he rested the tool of his trade, an antique long handled axe with a single-edged
iron blade. Beyond that was a simple gallows still under construction. It would give him cover and a clear sightline. He took up a position in the shadows beneath it.

  A burst of gunfire from the corner of the entrance splintered a wooden beam above him. Paul rolled away. When he looked up, he knew that he had missed his chance. His assailant was inside, somewhere in the shadows. He decided to crawl to an exhibit against the back wall where he could not be outflanked. It was a recreation of punishment for the crime of heresy, burning at the stake. The wax figure of a young woman was chained to a post on top of a pile of logs and kindling. A sign beside it read: “Anne Askew, aged 26, executed July 16, 1546.”

  As Paul edged forward, his foot caught a can of nails beside the unfinished gallows, pitching them onto the stone floor. Their tinkling sound betrayed his position. Another burst of gunfire sprayed the wall just above him. Paul instantly took aim at the muzzle flash, and squeezed the trigger. Nothing. The extractor on the right side of the slide had been damaged when the explosion had thrown Brandt to the ground. The casing of the shot Paul had fired at Nelson remained jammed inside. As he frantically tried to pull the slide and eject the cartridge, a silhouette loomed over him. He pointed the pistol at it, bluffing.

  “Drop your weapon!” Paul barked with as much confidence as he could summon. Again he squeezed the trigger. Nothing.

  Nelson leveled the Agram at Paul’s head: “This won’t look good on your record.”

  Then Nelson sensed a presence behind him. He swung his weapon round. It was smashed from his hand by the blade of an axe, which sheared away three of his fingers. Alice stood before him with the face of an avenging Fury. She had tested the headman’s blade with her thumb when she picked it up. It wasn’t nearly as sharp as her Da’s, who prided himself on his ability to take off a head with a single stroke. Some headsmen needed three or more swipes. But Alice did not care. She would smite him as many times as it took to send this evil caitiff to Hell. Nelson stumbled back with a howl as the pain kicked in. Alice lunged and swung the axe in a mighty down stroke, bisecting Nelson’s right shoulder down to the lung. He fell back against the pile of logs, his mouth filling with blood. This was not the death Nelson had always imagined for himself. Alice stepped to one side and swung the axe laterally, taking Nelson’s head off at the Adams apple. It fell to rest between his legs. Paul gaped at her, splashed with Nelson’s blood. He struggled to process the sudden turn of events.